


Reignited

by helens78



Series: Internal Combustion [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Disabled Character, Hand Jobs, M/M, Reconciliation, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Substitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After five years' absence, Erik Lehnsherr is back in town.  Charles has adjusted to life without him -- a very different life, since the accident that left him with an incomplete spinal injury -- but he couldn't really say he's happy about it.  So what's Erik's return going to mean for both of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reignited

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this a couple of years ago, to go along with the other "Charles and Erik steal cars" stories, but had great ambitions to have more of the story written before posting. More writing isn't likely in the near future, so given the newest trailer, I thought it would be fun to post some nice angry!Charles fic. :D?

It's his place, always his place, because who the fuck rents an apartment thinking they're going to go around bringing guys in wheelchairs home? Right now, Alan's thinking that Charles's apartment is weirdly neat for a bachelor, lots of open space, pretty nice. He hasn't made the connection that the hallways _have_ to be wider, that Charles can't roll over piles of clothes and beer cans and magazines. On the other hand, at least he's mostly being led by his dick right now, which counts for something.

And would count for more if he weren't so fucking concerned about whether Charles's dick works. He hasn't come out and asked; wouldn't be polite, he's thinking. _Asshole._ It's not like Charles can't afford to be picky; hell, he gets more now than he did before. More people, at least, even if the days where he shared a bed and a life with _one_ man are over. Point is, he's not a fucking monk.

But Alan's tall and broad-shouldered, with classic features, a strong jaw, and a lot of very sharp-looking teeth. Charles saw Alan with his shirt off at the basketball court; it was the narrow waist and slim hips that really sealed it for him. He was pretty much fucked. Had to roll himself over and introduce himself between games; had to get Alan's attention and then show off a little in the wheelchair basketball game.

More of Alan's interest was based on curiosity than Charles would have liked, but fuck it. It got him back to Charles's place.

And now they're here, and Alan bends over at the waist, leaning in close. He's awkward and off-balance and it weighs much too heavily on his mind. This chair doesn't have armrests, nowhere for Alan to rest his weight but Charles himself, and Alan seems to think that would be pushing it.

This is pushing: Charles reaches out, lightning-quick, and gets his hand behind Alan's neck, his other hand coming up to grip Alan's wrist and counterbalance the move. Automatically, Alan's free hand comes up to brace himself, and he catches Charles at the shoulder, squeezing hard. Alan's eyes go a little wide, but he doesn't hesitate: he leans in, kisses Charles, moans in explosive, stunned pleasure when Charles thrusts his tongue into Alan's mouth and takes the kiss over.

When Charles pulls back, they're both breathing hard.

"Come on," Charles says. "Bed."

"Yeah, okay," Alan says. "Lead the way."

Charles turns his chair around and rolls into the bedroom. He hears Alan hesitating in the doorway, but when Charles sets the brake on his chair and uses the assist handle at the side of the bed to push himself up, transfer himself into bed like he does every day, there's a burst of lust from Alan's part of the room, another surprised, pleased shock of arousal.

Christ. Not that Charles minds when someone notices his upper body, his shoulders really are that fucking hot, but it would be nice if just once, just _once_ , an able-bodied man wasn't so goddamned surprised by it. _I use my arms to get around every fucking day. I use them for everything. What a shock, I've got muscles there._

It's about to come crashing down anyway, he's going to have to draw attention to the fact that his legs don't work, so once he's taken off his fingerless sport gloves and tossed them onto the nightstand, dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dropped it next to the gloves, he looks over at Alan and says, "Coming in, or am I just giving you a show?"

Alan smiles at him, smooth and easy, and he takes his shirt off as he walks over to Charles's side of the bed. Charles shifts himself over so Alan won't be blocked in by the chair--won't, please God, move it out of arm's reach of the bed, though others have--and reaches out to hold Alan's hips in his hands. They're just about the right size: slim, fine-boned, a nice taper from a very attractive torso.

"How do we do this?" Alan asks, and for just a second the lust and interest in him overrides everything. No curiosity about whether Charles _can_ , no sense that Alan finds the bedroom or the bed or the chair or Charles himself weird; right now Alan's standing in front of a man, wanting to fuck or be fucked, and the horniness is fucking spectacular.

Charles pushes Alan's basketball shorts down his thighs; Alan takes a second and leans a hand down on the bed so he can stand there, one-legged, and yank at the laces on his shoes until he can get them off. Left first, then right, and then Alan lets his shorts drop to the floor and steps out of them. It leaves him in nothing but a jock strap; Charles snorts with amusement and reaches up to squeeze Alan's cock. He's hard already. Nice.

"Aren't you just a fucking wet dream," Charles says. He peels the jock strap off Alan and pauses; Alan's cut, something that Charles doesn't see every time, even here in New York.

The hot shock of want that wells up just makes Charles that much more irritated. _You are so fucking pathetic, Xavier._ It doesn't stop him from licking his lips, but they're not in the right position for him to do more than that. Instead, he settles for curling his hand around Alan's cock, jerking him quick and rough. Alan moans and starts pushing forward, hips working against Charles's hand.

This part is so easy and so practiced Charles barely thinks about doing it anymore; he rides along on the sensations of lust and pleasure, follows them back to their source, and amps it all up a few ticks. Alan gasps, shuddering, almost coming up on his toes for it. Inside his mind, his thoughts are a blast of _Jesus Christ, how the fuck, so good, gonna die, gonna fall down, who knew, holy shit fucking shit God don't stop don't stop don't stop_ , but as Alan gets close to orgasm, Charles does stop, leaving Alan to sway on his feet and shudder.

He leans away from Alan, bends down to get his shoes untied. With Alan in the way, he can't tuck them carefully under the bed like he normally would, so he just drops them, drops his socks on them, tugs his black tank top off over his head. The sweatpants can stay for now, no harm in that, probably better if they do--the scars on Charles's legs aren't pretty, not to most people, and Charles isn't interested in overhearing it if Alan decides they are.

Up on the bed, then. Charles rotates and starts drawing himself fully onto the bed; he pulls his legs up one at a time and then stretches himself out in the center of the bed. It takes a minute to get himself positioned right, but Alan's still recovering, too turned on to think anything but _fuck yeah, more, gotta get some more of that_.

Charles props himself on an elbow and crooks a finger. "Come here."

Alan looks down at Charles, at the bed as a whole. "Yeah," he breathes. "Where do you want me?"

This time when Charles licks his lips, he's showy about it. Alan's eyes light up. " _Fuck_ yeah," he breathes. "How...?"

Charles collapses on his back and beckons Alan up with both hands. "Up. Right here."

Alan climbs onto the bed and crawls up next to Charles's head, where he stops. "It's okay if I--I'm not gonna hurt you or anything...?"

It's only because he thinks he might hurt the mood that Charles doesn't roll his eyes. "I'll smack you one if you start to choke me, how's that? For fuck's sake, get up here."

The small amount of hesitation Alan's feeling dissipates, without any help from Charles, thankfully--he'd been thinking about it. But it's not necessary. Alan swings a leg over to the other side of Charles's head, and he braces himself with one hand on the headboard, the other hand moving down to angle his cock toward Charles's mouth. Charles puts both hands on Alan's ass and pushes him forward, impatient, insistent, getting a mouthful of Alan's hard-on before Alan gets the idea to draw this out.

Having Charles's mouth on him completely obliterates any thoughts Alan had of hesitating or taking it easy, and Charles is glad he didn't have to push for that, either. Alan thrusts down, fills Charles's mouth, and Charles lifts his head slightly to get even more. He winds his way into Alan's mind again, searches out the way Alan likes it, the things that get him off the most, and when he rubs his tongue just right against that spot under the head of Alan's cock, Alan cries out with pleasure. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck--"

_Yes,_ Charles thinks, drawing Alan in harder, hands insistent against Alan's ass, making Alan thrust in again and again. Alan reaches down and grabs Charles by the hair, but it's awkward, wrong somehow. The wrong hands, Alan's hands are crude and his fingernails too long. Charles gives him a mental nudge that sends Alan's hand back to the bedframe, and he flicks a spare tendril of his consciousness over Alan's pleasure centers, giving him a deep, throbbing sensation that's like coming, but staying on edge and hard as fuck, too.

Alan's gasping and babbling out pretty much everything that comes to his mind, which leads to a lot of cursing, but nothing worse than that, thank God; Charles has been with men who thought nothing of saying _fag_ or _gimp_ while Charles sucked them off. The first category tends to end up panting things like _I love being a fucking faggot, I love it when guys suck my dick, I'm a fag, I love cock, love cock, can't get enough, fuck_ by the time Charles is through with them; the men in the second category sometimes leave thinking they're little teapots, short and stout. He's nice enough to ensure it wears off after a few hours, though the song's left to linger in their minds for an indeterminate length of time.

But Alan's just panting "fuck, fuck, suck me, God, fucking suck me, feels so fucking good, holy fuck, Charles, _yeah_ ," and when Charles drills into Alan's pleasure centers and twists, Alan comes down his throat, moaning over and over again, burying his cock in Charles's mouth like he's planning to stay forever.

Forever ends when Charles gives Alan's ass a hard slap, and Alan struggles to climb off him. He collapses at Charles's side, gulping in deep lungfuls of air as Charles lifts a hand to his throat and rubs gently at it. He won't be too sore, and not for long.

Alan slides his hand onto Charles's chest. "Your turn," he pants. "What do I get to do to you?"

Charles brushes Alan's hand away. The resemblance was enough to get his attention, but this is getting to be pitiful. "Nothing," he says. "We're done here."

A burst of surprise rolls over Alan's mind. "Hey, it's cool if you can't, whatever, I just thought--I mean, whatever feels good, right? I don't care."

There's nothing like disgust or pity in Alan's mind, and for a few seconds, hard long seconds, Charles wonders if it might be worth it. He could teach Alan what he likes, could show Alan how he makes love now, all the slow gentle touches he likes, the tease of stubble against his neck, the scratches and bites on his nipples.

But he can't do this to himself any more. Not today. Alan looks a little like Erik, in the shape of his face and the lines of his body, but Charles really can't take the idea of rewriting Alan's memories so he remembers Charles yelling _Alan_ instead of _Erik_ , can't take the idea of biting his tongue so he doesn't say it or trying to shut down his thoughts so he doesn't think it.

He sits up, ignores his half-hard cock, and grabs the assist handle at the side of the bed. With a few practiced motions, he's out of bed and back into the chair, and he bends down to the floor, grabbing up Alan's clothes and tossing them up on the bed. Alan's thoughts go from surprised to hurt to pissed off, and soon enough he's pulling his clothes on, his lips set in a firm line.

It makes him look more like Erik than ever.

"Whatever," Alan mutters as he leaves, but he slams the door behind him, and Charles can hear him thinking _asshole_ as he walks out of the building and heads back for the park. Oh, well. It's not like he's the first to leave that way.

Charles licks at the inside of his cheek. Taste's all wrong, too, and he sags against the low back of his sports chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

He's halfway to the bathroom when his phone rings, and he grunts in irritation, turning around and heading back for the nightstand. He grabs up the cell phone and looks at the number; it's not someone he recognizes. They can wait.

By the time he's done brushing his teeth and showering, there's voice mail waiting for him. He sets the phone to speaker and goes over to his dresser, but when the voice mail actually gets started, he stops cold, hand in his underwear drawer.

" _Charles--_ " There's a long pause on the other end of the line, where Erik says nothing and Charles considers throwing the phone against the wall. " _I don't imagine you've been expecting to hear from me, but..._ "

_You're fucking right I haven't been expecting to hear from you, you son of a bitch._ Charles's hand hovers over the end call button. He can't make himself push it.

" _I need to see you. Today, if possible. Please. I know it's short notice, I know I've been a bastard, I--_ " Erik's voice breaks off; Charles closes his eyes hard, not because they're stinging, goddamnit. " _God, I fucking miss you_ ," Erik says, five years too late, and Charles gives up fighting it and rests his head against his palm, letting the anger fill him 'til he's shaking and his eyes are brimming with tears. " _Please, Charles. I still--_ "

The voicemail cuts out, and Charles fumbles with the phone. That's the end of it. _Please, Charles. I still--_

"No," Charles whispers, "oh, no, you do not get to do that to me, you do not get to fucking--" He reaches out blindly, his mind searching, and he shoves past person after person, like he's running through a crowd and jostling and elbowing to get people the fuck out of his way. Erik is out there, Charles knows it, feels it, and even if he's five years out of practice in finding Erik in a crowd of ten million people, his anger pushes him to his limits and he's got him, Erik in a hotel room somewhere, bent over a table, looking down at a map and a list.

His thoughts surge into Erik, too angry to be gentle; Erik raises a hand to his temple and drops to one knee.

«You son of a bitch,» Charles thinks, stabbing in, twisting the knife to the best of his ability. Erik brings his other hand to his head, cries out from the pain. «You son of a bitch, how dare you, not a word for five years, all those fucking money transfers, like I give a damn about the money and how you want to use it to pay off your guilt--»

Erik's thoughts bleed in, desperate, urgent. «I'm sorry, so sorry, wrong, I was wrong, couldn't face you, couldn't bear it, my fault, so sorry--»

« _You_ couldn't face me--» Charles's thoughts are a blistering stream of rage, and in Erik's hotel room he can feel it, can feel Erik dropping to the floor, curled on his side with both hands over his head, trying to shut Charles out and trying to hold himself together at the same time. «Do you want to know who could face me? Do you want to see that?»

Image after image, a half-decade-long line of men and their bodies, the way they've tasted and smelled and fucked, all of them tall and slender and beautiful, Charles's type so humiliatingly obvious as the pictures and sounds and full-motion video pour their way into Erik's head. All the men Charles has fucked, those few he's allowed to fuck him, the ones he's called _Erik_ while they were screwing.

Erik's initial shock deepens to pain and then rage as Charles finishes off with today's fuck, with Alan, and Erik pulls himself together enough to think, «Then you don't need me back in your life. I apologize for troubling you.»

He can't sever the connection, not when it's all up to Charles, but Charles can feel Erik picking himself up off the floor, standing and looking down at his map and his list again, smoothing his sweaty palms on the fronts of his trousers. He's just--he's just moving on, he knows Charles is still in his head but he's moving on, ignoring Charles, pretending he's not there.

«Where are you?» Charles asks, and he pulls the hotel's name out of Erik's mind before Erik can answer in words. He looks around Erik's room with new eyes, with Erik's eyes, recognizing the lowered viewhole and the wheelchair-accessible sink and bathroom, the helper bars, the wider doorways. Most hotel rooms follow the letter but not the spirit of the ADA, living up to requirements but doing no more; this one's actually had someone design the room elements with intent and awareness and style, besides. Erik went out of his way for a hotel with a good accessibility score. «Fuck you, asshole, how dare you just assume you could snap your fingers and I'd come running.»

«I wasn't assuming.» Erik sighs. «I suppose there's no point in asking if we could do this over the phone.»

«Don't tell me you don't want my thoughts in your head.» He's pushing the edges of his own capacity for anger and viciousness now, but it's been five years. _Five years._ «Because you used to fucking beg me for it. Every word, every thought, every sensation--what do you think, could I still make you come from just pushing the right buttons?» Arousal wells up hard in Erik, sweet and sharp, and the aching urge for that connection isn't one-sided, much as Charles wants to hold it over Erik's head and claim it is. «If I wanted you to come right now, across the motherfucking city, could I do that? Could I push once and make you come all over those expensive pants of yours?»

«Yes,» Erik answers. «But if you're going to do that, I would appreciate being allowed to strip first.»

Charles thinks about it. He's got a tight grip on Erik's pleasure centers, more threat than promise, and Erik's holding still for him, hands flat on the desk in front of him, feet on the floor. He could do this. It would be _easy_.

But it'd just be to prove a point, and if he's going to fuck Erik for the first time in five years, he doesn't want it happening in their minds.

«Fuck you,» Charles thinks, weary, releasing his grip on Erik. «I'm coming over.»

«I'll be here.»

«I know.»

Charles cuts him off and closes his eyes. "Son of a bitch," he mutters, hands curling into fists. "Fuck you, _fuck you_ , you _son of a bitch_."

It's no use, though. Five years, and he's stupid enough to _still_ be in love with the guy. He's also vain enough to take his time getting dressed, and he checks his reflection in the mirror before he switches out to the Xenon and goes downstairs to hail a cab.

* * *

Charles rolls in angry. It was easy to stay angry all the way here, angry enough to use his ability to bypass the desk clerk, angry enough to grit his teeth all the way up the elevator ride. He reaches out and bangs his knuckles into the door, and he feels Erik inside the room, jolted into awareness of Charles's presence. Erik is already reaching out for the things on Charles's body that are metal: his wristwatch, the zippers on his jacket and jeans and boots, and of course he's feeling out for Charles's chair.

But all that takes only a moment, and Erik opens the door-- with his ability, of course, five years hasn't changed his need to show off at every turn-- and Charles feels half his anger drain right out of him.

He struggles with that. He gave up the anger over the accident years ago; Erik hadn't been willing to listen to him, had taken that turn too fast and trusted his ability to keep the car on the road, but he'd never meant to see Charles hurt.

But five years of silence and guilty bank account deposits and _not one fucking word_ \-- oh, yes, he's still angry about all that.

Every shred of telepathic connection couldn't have prepared him for this, though. Seeing Erik face-to-face for the first time in five years, taking in the look on his face and the emotions surging through him, having to _feel_ Erik's pain and regret and--

"I can't get over you," Charles says, and he shouldn't have, because it's true on so many different levels. "You disappear for five years, and then you expect me to drop everything and--" He flicks his eyes down at his chair and then lifts an eyebrow as he looks back at Erik. " _Roll_ right over. What's the matter with you?"

"All the same things," Erik says. "Do you want to come in?"

"I should roll over your toes," Charles mutters, but he comes in anyway, heading straight for the table with its map and its list. He hadn't paid much attention to them when he was in Erik's mind earlier, but now he can see the map, stretched out over cork, dozens of tiny pins stuck in the surface. They're sparse in Manhattan, and all the ones there have red beads. Further out there are more and more of them, some with yellow beads, some with black, blue, green. The colors aren't random; they're clustered.

There's one white pin in Brooklyn, and Charles narrows his eyes at it. It's on _his shop_ , the auto repair shop and school that he's run since the accident. He can't make sense of the rest of the map yet, but that seems vaguely ominous.

"Why am I here?" Charles asks softly. He reaches out for that one white pin, rests his fingertip on it. "Why is _this_ here?"

Erik comes up behind him, and Charles closes his eyes. Erik's three steps away, two, one-- _right there_ , close enough to touch.

"Because--"

Charles holds up a hand and shakes his head. "If you lie to me--"

"What would be the point?"

"If you lie to me, I will knock you unconscious and roll over you on my way out the door." Charles runs one hand down the rim of his wheel. "And if you so much as think about touching my chair, you're going to spend the next forty-eight hours thinking you're some sort of domestic canine. I'll let you pick the breed."

"German Shepherd," Erik says immediately, and he finally, five years too fucking late, puts his hands on Charles's shoulders, leans his weight down against him. "God, I missed you."

"You never had to _miss_ me," Charles snaps back, but the rest of his anger is fading fast, a slow simmer underneath all the other things he's feeling. "Tell me what you've been doing without me."

Erik's thumbs move up and down against Charles's shoulders, the sides of his neck. "What? Or whom?" His grip goes tight, but only for an instant. "I've already seen what you've been doing without _me_."

"Whom, if not what," Charles murmurs. He curls his hands into fists, feels the padded leather of his half-gloves creak against his palms. He's not going to reach for Erik yet. "The first year I used to bring you back. Imagine you there and hold onto your image until I was through screaming at you."

"And then?"

"Sometimes I let you go." Charles tilts his head back, finally resting it against Erik's waist. "Sometimes I didn't."

Erik brings one hand around, trails his fingertips up and down the center of Charles's throat. Charles's entire body tingles, from the waist up at least. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel that, the gentle motion, _Erik_ touching him after all these years apart. " _Damn_ you," he grits out. "I'm supposed to tell you what a bastard you are and spit in your face and tell you I never want to see you again."

"I'll kneel down if you need me in spitting range."

"The hell you will." Charles shakes his head and gets Erik's hand off his throat; he turns, searching the room for-- there, _yes_ , the bed, all right. And he leaves Erik behind as he goes over to it, sets the brake on his chair, and transfers in.

"Well?" he asks, once he's gotten his boots and half-gloves off. He gets out of his jacket, too, and as Erik watches, he strips off his t-shirt, leaving just the jeans. "Are you coming or not?"

The uncertainty on Erik's face breaks and gives way to determination; his thoughts are so loud Charles actually flinches back from them. "Don't think like that," he mutters.

"Don't think what? That if it's my last chance, I'll be damned if I give it up?" Erik strips down, fast and efficient, carefully piling his clothes on the chair by his side of the bed. Charles stares at him-- five years have added more muscle, a few more scars, and there's one going all the way up his right arm that can only have come from the same accident that tore the two of them apart. "I was an idiot to leave. I don't expect you to forgive me."

"I might not." Charles pushes up on one arm; it gives him the range to reach over, grab Erik by the wrist, and yank him into bed. Erik stumbles, falls, but Charles keeps hold of him and tugs and drags until Erik's on top of him, straddling Charles's hips, all that beautiful skin and gorgeously-defined muscle under Charles's hands. Charles doesn't shy away from touching him, either. He's waited five years to have Erik where he wanted him again. He's just never been sure where that would _be_ , until now.

"Then tell me what to do. Tell me how to do this." Erik gasps as Charles runs a hand up his chest, curves his palm against Erik's throat. " _Show_ me."

«Kiss me,» Charles thinks, and Erik bends down to do it.

They both gasp when Erik makes contact. Charles catches the back of Erik's neck in his hand, holding tight, keeping Erik in place while Charles strokes his tongue against Erik's mouth and then slides it inside, licking at him. Erik gives ground, which is somehow not what Charles expected-- five years ago Erik always had to lead.

But they're different men now, _both_ of them, not just Charles. Charles is going to have to face that, now that Erik's a part of his life again-- and he's already too far gone to pretend he'll be able to give Erik up when this is over.

«I missed you,» he thinks, burying his hands in Erik's hair. Everyone he's touched, every tall, slender man he's taken to bed, everyone he's pretended to want over the last five years-- none of them could be _this_ to him, this gorgeous, brilliant wreck of a man, and as Charles digs himself deeper and deeper into Erik's mind, he can see Erik's every bit as wrecked and broken now as he was the last time Charles saw him. That bastard Shaw still carries a heavy weight in Erik's thoughts, and God, what Charles wouldn't give to just tear that burden loose from him, rewrite Erik's history so Shaw can never touch him again.

He's more tempted now than he ever was when they were together. The accident might have left him unable to walk, but his mind and his powers are sharper than ever. They could start over, they could _really_ start over if he could just convince Erik to let Sebastian Shaw _go_.

Erik tears his mouth away from Charles, and he meets Charles's eyes. "What?" He taps a finger against Charles's forehead. "What's going on in there?"

Charles shakes his head, frustrated and impatient. "It's nothing," he says. "I want to fuck you. You're going to let me fuck you this time, aren't you?"

The thought «--how--?» flashes through Erik's mind, but he's already yanking at the nightstand drawer, lube flying out to meet his hand. The bottle looks to be plastic; Charles raises an eyebrow at Erik as Erik slaps the bottle into Charles's hand.

"Still putting washers in your lube?"

"Hex nuts." Erik smirks. "Tell me it's not more convenient than actually needing to move off you."

"Point taken. If you end up with a hex nut up your ass, it's on you."

"I think I could get it out again."

Charles slicks up both hands, using up a lot of what's left in the bottle, dripping lube onto the bedcovers and his stomach and, oh yes, his jeans are going to be a mess by the time he's done. But when he reaches down, between them, between Erik's legs, Erik crawls up obligingly, putting himself well within range.

«Easy. Breathe in,» Charles thinks, pressing just a little at Erik's mind, too impatient to let Erik relax on his own. His fingers slip into Erik's cleft, two of them at his hole now, and when Charles thinks, «Breathe out,» he glides them in, Erik's body taking them beautifully, Erik suspended above him and groaning aloud.

«You're beautiful. You're so beautiful, I missed you _so much_ , Erik...»

"I know," Erik whispers, sitting back on Charles's hand, squirming down for more. Charles gives it to him, presses his fingers in as deeply as they'll go. The easy thrusts give way to faster ones, rougher ones, and Erik groans again as he says, "I know, I missed you, too..."

Charles has another hand that hasn't gotten to play just yet; he brings it between them, too, and wraps it around Erik's cock. Erik hisses, but holds still, and the lube warms up quickly as Charles starts stroking him. Erik settles in for it all, arms loose at his sides, face tilting back and neck arching as he rides Charles's hands.

He gives over completely; any sense that he might have wanted to be in control of this is gone. He lets Charles fuck him with two fingers, then three. Three feels like it might be Erik's limit-- _you don't let just anyone do this to you, do you, just me, have you been waiting for me, saving yourself...? God, I want to believe that's why you're so tight for me_ \-- but Charles works that limit, pushes into Erik over and over again, wanting to break him apart.

When Erik starts to get close, Charles reaches into his mind again and holds him there. He's not going to make this easy for Erik; he's going to push him, and push him, and if Erik thinks he's not walking away completely used and well-fucked and sore, he's so very, very wrong. Erik pulls in deep gasps of air, rocks back and forth against Charles's fingers inside him, Charles's hand wrapped around him, and Charles can hear him straining not to beg as it goes on and on and on.

«Go on. Go on, say it, tell me, you're dying to say 'please', just do it, say it, out loud--»

Erik's wordless sound is half-laugh and half-sob. «You might _stop_ ,» he thinks, his words jagged and gorgeous with desperation. «Don't let go, don't let me go, I'm here, please, don't ever let me go--»

One _please_ in all of that. Charles knows it isn't enough, not really, but he closes his eyes and immerses himself in all of Erik's radiant emotion. He feels Erik's love and desire wash over him, so familiar, as if they'd never lost each other. He feels desperation, Erik's body needing the release of orgasm-- at this point, given how much Charles has him worked up, Erik might need two or three to really feel satisfied. Charles could give it to him, _has_ given it to him, climax after climax until Erik's thoughts were just swirls of color and heat washing over him. Not this time, though; he wants Erik coherent again sometime today.

What he doesn't feel in Erik's mind-- and he goes looking for it, damn Erik, anyway-- is _hope_. For all that he's begging Charles not to let go, there's no answering beacon that says he believes it's going to happen.

Erik was never one for hope anyway, and Charles tries to make himself believe it's only that. Forget the map and the pin and the way Erik didn't answer his questions, forget that _something_ must have brought Erik here after five years of conspicuous absence. Five years ago, Erik believed in Charles, and his ability, and revenge. And five years ago, Charles didn't question it. Erik believed in him. That was enough.

It won't be enough this time, and Charles gives Erik a rough, dirty twist with one hand as his fingers move as deeply into Erik as they can. «Come,» he thinks, releasing the hold he's had on Erik all this time. Erik bites off a scream as he does it, his ass tightening on Charles's fingers, his cock jerking in Charles's hand. Charles licks his lips as Erik's spunk streaks over his chest, leaves him marked with all those hot, sticky jets, and God, it smells like him, it's _Erik_ , no illusion, no fantasy. Just the scent of Erik on his body after all this time is enough to have him close, and he grapples messily for one of Erik's hands, gets it onto his chest.

"Touch me," and damn it, he sounds like he's begging, he's desperate enough to be halfway to tears. Erik splays his hand out over Charles's chest, then brings the other up to Charles's face, and Charles gasps, sucks Erik's thumb into his mouth, feels the pads of Erik's fingers brushing against his cheek and his temple and _oh, God_ , it's almost enough, just that.

But when Erik's other hand moves up, rubs his come into Charles's skin, traces a rough path around Charles's nipple and then, _fuck, fuck_ , scratches across it, that's all Charles can handle-- he comes, too, eyes slammed shut, teeth digging into Erik's thumb, his nipples so hard they're aching, his skin red-hot and every inch sensitive to touch. Erik scratches over Charles's nipple again, and Charles gasps out loud, letting Erik draw his thumb back, and Erik's caressing Charles's hair while his other hand just keeps rubbing over Charles's chest, making Charles whimper and moan and-- hell, he's _begging_ , his mind's just sending out «please» now, «please don't stop, please just like that, please don't ever leave me again...»

When it all finally fades for him, he manages to get his eyes open. Erik's looking down at him, his lashes wet and his eyes bright.

He could say, _Of course I won't ever leave you again, Charles, I love you_ , and Charles would _know_ he's dreaming. Instead, he eases back a little, and says, "I'm sorry I was gone for so long. I should have been here from the start."

"Yes." Charles glances down at his hands, filthy with lube and come. "Could you bring me a damp towel, please."

Erik nods and stumbles off toward the bathroom. Charles sinks back against the pillows, closing his eyes.

All those pins. Manhattan, Queens, the Bronx, Charles's shop, different colors, red in Manhattan...

His eyes fly open, and he's lancing his thoughts into Erik's mind before he can stop himself.

«You're stealing again.»

There's a thump from the bathroom, Erik dropping to one knee and putting a hand to the side of his head, gritting his teeth through the shock and pain. "A bit more gentle, please," Erik calls.

«Fuck gentle! You're stealing again, and it's big this time. You're not working for Shaw anymore, you'd kill yourself first... what in God's name is going on, Erik?» Charles can feel his skin tightening into gooseflesh. Oh, Christ. This can't be what it looks like, it _can't_ be. «Tell me, _right now_ , or I will rip it out of your head so help me _God_ \--»

Erik comes out of the bathroom, towels in hand, one damp, one dry. He knees his way onto the bed and hands them over, but Charles couldn't give less of a damn about the mess right now. Unless he's wrong about what's happening, Erik's about to make a much, much larger mess of things, and damn it, after all this, he's going to bring Charles into it, too.

"Tell me," Charles says.

Erik's smile makes Charles shiver. "Three days," he says, "and I'll ruin him forever."


End file.
